Stealth Attack Page 6

  “Roman is a nice name. I hope . . .” She struggled with her voice again. “I guess I just hope.” Abigail started to climb back into her chair but stopped. Balanced there in the middle of the ladder, she seemed lost in thought. Abruptly, she reached under the arm of the guard chair, snatched her book off the seat, and climbed back down the ladder.

  “This just isn’t right,” she said as she passed Jonathan on her way toward Big Guy. Boxers saw her coming and rose abruptly and stepped out of the way. When she got to Rocky, he was still trying to find air to breathe. “Why didn’t you call the police when I told you?” she shouted.

  Heads turned. It wasn’t the kind of attention that Jonathan wanted to draw.

  “I told you that two people had been kidnapped, and you didn’t do anything!”

  “Oh, pound it,” Rocky said. “Get back—”

  With a loud shriek, Abigail grabbed Rocky’s ponytail in both hands and yanked.

  “Hey! Ow! The hell you doin’?”

  Abigail never stopped. As she pulled, Rocky tried to find his feet, but she was dragging him across the rough concrete, toward the water.

  “You’re fired, bitch! I swear to God—”

  At the edge of the pool, she started to swing him around by his hair the way you’d swing a kid around by his arms. He was too heavy to get that kind of momentum, but she was strong enough to get him partially on his feet and entirely unbalanced. She let go with one hand and smashed her fist into his nose. As his nostrils erupted, she shoved him with both hands into the water.

  “I’m not your bitch!” she screamed. “And I quit, you pizza-faced cocksucker!”

  The crowd erupted in applause. Jonathan and Boxers stepped back to give her room.

  As she stormed away, she stopped in front of Jonathan. “That felt good.”

  The crowd was still applauding as she made her exit.

  Boxers said, “Can we hire her?”

  * * *

  Roman Alexander had lost all track of time. After shoving him and Ciara into the vehicles, the guys in the suits drove only a few blocks to one of those low-rise office parks where every storefront had a garage, but not every store fixed cars. For the entire ride, he’d been pressed face-first into the floor of the backseat, something heavy forced into the small of his back. He assumed it to be the attacker’s knee, but how could he know?

  Once they stopped, the guy on his back said, “You have a big decision to make here, kid. What’s your name?”

  “Roman.” He couldn’t think of a reason not to share the basics. “Roman Alexander.”

  “Okay, Roman Alexander. I know you’re scared shitless, and that’s good, because you should be scared shitless. You’re being kidnapped. That’s kind of a traumatic thing. I get that.”

  As awful as the words were, and the message they delivered, the guy’s tone didn’t sound threatening. He might have been explaining the answer to a math problem.

  “So, here’s your decision. Clearly, you’ve been trained in some fighting skills. You caught me by surprise back there. If you try that again, I promise you that I will take a sledgehammer to your knees and both your hands. Not only won’t you ever fight again, you’ll be lucky to ever walk again. Am I making myself clear?”

  Roman nodded, scraping his cheek against the rough carpet.

  “Say it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  There were two ways to go here. Roman decided to try both. “Yes, sir. You made yourself clear.”

  “Are you going to behave yourself?”

  “Yes. Sir.”

  “You can drop the sir shit. This isn’t the military.”

  A million questions flooded Roman’s head, but he figured this was not the time.

  “Here’s your test, Roman Alexander. I’m going to let you up.”

  The pressure lifted from his back, and his T-shirt drew tight across his neck as the guy pulled on him. He heard the door click open and felt the car shift as the guy stepped out, still tugging on Roman’s shirt. Roman got his hands up on the seat so he could rise to his knees, then he worked his way backward toward the door.

  “Doing good, kid,” his captor said. “Keep it up. Come all the way out.”

  Roman got his feet on the concrete floor.

  “Watch your head as you stand up.”

  Just like that, he was out of the car, surrounded by the guys in the suits, plus three more. And Ciara. She had a bruise under her eye that seemed to be growing. She’d been crying.

  “Quien es este?” Roman had taken two years of Spanish, and he got this one. Who is this? The guy who asked it seemed to be the youngest in the room, and he was not happy.

  The answer came in a flurry of Spanish that Roman didn’t have a chance in hell of understanding. It became an argument between the suit with the knee in his back—Guzman—and the young guy.

  It ended with the young guy pulling a silver gun from somewhere and aiming it at Roman’s forehead.

  “Who are you!” the man yelled. His English sounded perfect to Roman’s ear.

  Roman took two steps back till he impacted with the side of the BMW. He put his hands up. As if they could stop a bullet. “Don’t!”

  “Answer my question! Who the hell are you?”

  “Roman Alexander! Honest to God, don’t shoot me.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “What? You kidnapped me! I have no idea why I’m here!”

  “Why were you with Ciara?”

  “Because she asked me to. We skipped school to go swimming.”

  “But you don’t live here.”

  “It was a school trip,” Roman said. As if that made a difference. “We skipped out on a field trip to go swimming. Is that better?”

  Pistol Man moved to smack Roman across the cheek, but the boy got his hand up too fast. He blocked the blow without thinking.

  “Remember what I told you,” Guzman reminded from off to the side.

  Roman put his hand down and allowed himself to be smacked. The blow wasn’t very hard, but it didn’t need to be. The shame of letting it happen hurt more than any slap possibly could.

  “Your attitude is not appreciated here, Mr. Roman.” Pistol Man turned to Guzman and spoke in Spanish. Pistol Man was not happy, and Guzman appeared apologetic.

  Then Ciara joined the conversation, rattling off fluent Spanish. This was news. Roman didn’t know Ciara spoke any language other than English. In school, she was struggling to learn French. At least, that’s what she’d told him.

  Whatever Ciara had to say stopped the others from sniping at each other and brought all the attention around to herself. Then the heads turned in unison toward Roman. A chill launched from his tailbone to his brain. This couldn’t be good. He tried to take a step back, but the car still blocked his way.

  Pistol Man’s whole demeanor changed. He holstered his gun and smiled. “Let us start over,” he said.

  Roman jumped when the man extended his hand in greeting. “My name is Cristos Silva,” he said.

  Roman didn’t know what to do. He ended up staring at the hand.

  “Please do not show me disrespect,” Silva said. “We have discussed this already.”

  Roman took the man’s hand, expecting to be hurt. But it was a friendly handshake.

  “Please come over to the table and have a seat.” He pointed to a folding card table surrounded by six folding metal chairs.

  Roman looked over to Ciara, whose smile seemed genuine. Encouraging. Guzman had a similar smile.

  “Sit right there, Mr. Roman,” Silva said, patting the back of the closest metal chair.

  This felt so not-right. It felt lethal. The seat they wanted him to sit in faced the wall, his back turned to the rest of the room—to Guzman and another guy who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself.

  “You come, too, Ciara.” He patted the seat next to Roman’s.

  Roman watched her eyes as she watched the men who stood around them. Where there used to be
some familiarity, now there was a hint of fear. His spine launched another lightning bolt. When she was seated, Roman reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

  “Now, Mr. Roman Alexander,” Silva said. “Tell us all about your father.”

  Roman’s jaw dropped and his stomach tightened again. He didn’t know what to say.

  Silva’s head cocked to the side. “I’m trying very hard to be nice to you now. Please don’t look at me that way.”

  Roman looked to Ciara, who nodded vigorously. “You need to tell him.”

  He didn’t know how to form the words. “I–I don’t know what to say. I haven’t seen my father since I was little. I mean, really little. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  Silva’s face grew angry as he shot a glare toward Ciara.

  “Don’t lie,” Ciara said. “Tell him about the money.”

  “What money?” Roman said. As panic bloomed, he shot a pleading look to Silva. “Honest to God, Mr. Silva, I don’t know what she’s talking about. For all I know, my father is dead.”

  “What about the guy who gave a mansion to the church?” Ciara said. “The guy who gives all the money to the school.”

  “He’s not my father,” Roman said. He heard the indignation in his own voice. “He’s my mom’s boss.”

  “You talk about him all the time.”

  Roman didn’t know if that was true, but he supposed it could be. “That doesn’t make him my father.” Again, to Silva: “He’s white. Look at me.”

  Silva didn’t look convinced, but he looked like he was close. “What is this man’s name?”

  Roman didn’t want to say. It didn’t feel right to say, plus his mom had told him a thousand times to keep their personal business personal. And there was the thing. That’s the way Roman thought of the secret that no one ever talked about. He didn’t have a clue what it was, but he knew that Security Solutions was more than what it pretended to be. His mom spent too many late nights that she couldn’t talk about, and Mr. Jonathan walked around with too many bruises he wouldn’t talk about.

  And there was the attack on their house. The one that shot the place up and got his mom’s boyfriend killed. Derek. He was kind of an asshole, but Mom really liked him. Really mourned for him.

  “Do I need to hit you again?” Silva asked. “Is that the only way to get conversation out of you?”

  “No, sir,” Roman said. He didn’t see a way not to answer. “His name is Jonathan Grave.”

  “And what does Jonathan Grave do for a living?”

  “He runs a company. He’s a private investigator.”

  Silva’s eyes narrowed. “Private investigators are not rich.”

  Roman didn’t now how to answer that, so he said nothing.

  “Is Mr. Grave a rich man?”

  “I suppose. He’s got a lot of nice stuff.”

  Silva’s eyebrows drew closer together as he thought about something. “How often do you see Jonathan Grave?”

  “I don’t know.” Roman said it as a space holder as he tried to figure out how to answer. “He’s, you know, my mom’s boss. The office is just down the hill from our house. It’s a small town.”

  “What is the name of the town?”

  “Fisherman’s Cove.”

  “Look,” Ciara interrupted. “This guy—this Jonathan Grave—might not be his father, but he’s got tons of money. The way he talks about the guy, you’d swear he was his father.”

  “This man cares for you?” Silva asked.

  From the way he formed the question, Roman saw what was in play. “What are you going to do with me?”

  Silva smiled. “Well, Mr. Roman, I will let you decide. Until Ciara here spoke up and told us about this Jonathan Grave, I was going to shoot you and get rid of your body. You weren’t supposed to be here at all. You are a burden and a threat.”

  Roman felt fear boiling in his stomach. It was entirely possible that he was going to barf on them all.

  “But then Ciara saved your life. These are your choices, Mr. Roman Alexander. You can work with us to gather as much data as possible to give Mr. Jonathan Grave incentive to pay us a great deal of money to get you back. Or, I can kill you. Worse, I can ask Mr. Guzman here to kill you. He has a wonderful talent with hammers. He said he mentioned that to you.”

  “You want me to be your prisoner so Mr. Jonathan will pay you money.” Saying the words aloud made them seem real.

  “You are already my prisoner,” Silva said. “Your mother’s boss will pay for your release, or I will mail you home in ten different boxes.”

  Silva’s eyes shifted to something behind Roman, and he nodded.

  Roman sensed the movement before he could see it, and he found his chin locked in the crook of someone’s elbow.

  Ciara screamed at the same moment Roman felt the needle plunge into his arm.

  Chapter Six

  Jonathan called Gail first and asked her to make an excuse to be near Venice in a few minutes. No, it wasn’t going to be tragic news, but it was going to upset her.

  While they waited in the Suburban with the lights off and the windows down, Boxers’ shadow leaned forward. “You okay, Dig?”

  “I’ve been better. This is going to tear Venice apart.”

  “It’s not bad news yet.”

  “I don’t need a pep talk, Box. I know what it is. And you know how much she has lost in the last little while. This is a parent’s worst nightmare.”

  Boxers took a breath, but Jonathan cut him off. “Don’t say it. Second worst nightmare.”

  Jonathan closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he pressed SEND on his phone. Venice answered on the first ring. “Why did you send Gail to sit with me? Is Roman okay?”

  “We have no reason to believe he is not,” Jonathan said, but he hated how evasive the words sounded. “It’s pretty clear that he and Ciara were picked up by bad guys.”

  “Oh, God.”

  He could hear the panic on the edge of her voice, and he wanted to take her away from that. “Yeah, I know it’s scary, but at this point, that’s the end of the bad news. We know that they were snatched very close to two o’clock on the sidewalk outside of the Shady Sun Water Park outside of El Paso, right where you thought they might be.”

  “I’ve scoured all of the cameras I can find in that area,” Venice said. “I can’t come up with anything useful.”

  “But I have more information,” Jonathan said. “First of all, in addition to the time, we know from a witness that one of the cars that picked them up was an SUV. I think that’s pretty reliable. The witness guessed that it was a silver BMW, but I’m less confident about the make and color.”

  He remained silent while Venice processed the information. “It gives me something to look for, for sure.”

  “I’ve got something for Gunslinger to track down, too,” Jonathan said. Gail hated her handle, but it so perfectly described her skills with a firearm. “Is she there?”

  “What’ve you got?” Gail asked.

  “Okay, the witness said something very interesting. Her name is Abigail, by the way, and she’s a lifeguard for the water park. In case you need to know that. I don’t have a last name for her. Anyway, she seemed to think that Ciara was the focus of the attack on the kids.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either,” Jonathan confessed. “I’m just repeating what Abigail told me. She said that the guy who got out of the vehicle—dressed in a suit, by the way, looked like a cop—went for the girl, but Roman intervened. Fired a kick that bought them some time to run.”

  “Roman did that?” Venice sounded proud, too.

  “Chivalry in action,” Jonathan said.

  “But they didn’t get away, right?” Gail asked, bringing them back on point.

  “No, they got as far as the corner before the car stopped them again.”

  As he spoke, two El Paso police cruisers rolled up to the front of the water park.

  “I’m not sure I
’m seeing where you want me to go with this,” Gail said.

  Jonathan explained, “When I came down here, I was convinced that if Roman had been taken, it was because of me—us—and our previous operations in Mexico. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this is about the Kelly family, and Roman is just collateral.”

  “Would that be good news or bad?” Venice asked.

  “Let’s assume it’s good. Without a vendetta to settle, maybe he’ll be in less danger.” What Jonathan didn’t mention was that not being a principal also made him a burden and a potential witness.

  Outside, the cops moved slowly, clearly not on alert as they strolled through the faux porthole toward the ticket booth. Jonathan wondered what story Rocky had conjured to make himself anything but the dickhead in that altercation.

  “We’ve got to click off in a minute. El Paso’s finest is here, asking questions about us, I think.”

  “What did you do?” Venice asked the question with the tone you might use for a dog that’d messed on the floor.

  “Big Guy might have gotten a little too much lip from an asswipe manager,” Jonathan said. His phone buzzed, showed a DC area code. “I’ve got another call. Let us know if you dig up anything interesting.”

  He dumped one call and answered the other. “Hi, Thor. Hang on a second.”

  He pointed ahead through the windshield. “Let’s get out of here. Those cops don’t know what we’re driving.” Boxers dropped the transmission into gear and drove out through the far end of the lot, away from the cop cars. To Dawkins: “Okay, Harry, whatcha got?”

  “Have you been to the cops yet?”

  “Haven’t had time.”

  “Don’t bother, then. Not tonight. Everybody who can make a decision has already gone home. We can catch them in the morning, first thing.”

  “We?”

  “Sure. You know how cops are. A familiar face opens a lot of doors.”

  “Don’t you have other work to do?”

  “Nah,” he said. “You guys are too much fun. Whatever you’re up to, I’d like a piece of it, if you don’t mind.”

  Thor was a good operator, but he was notorious for not making a commitment. He liked his government job and the benefits that came with it. Plus, there was security in having a badge. He’d been helpful enough to Jonathan over the years, though, that they’d worked out an unofficial part-time gig for him when he wanted it.